


oneinthedark

by leiascully



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Strexcorp, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos isn't sure what he expected from Cecil's bowling league, but it wasn't revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oneinthedark

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: post-"Yellow Helicopters"  
> A/N: This turned out a lot more serious than I expected. I changed the title after realizing there was already a fic by that title in this fandom; [oneinthedark](http://www.bowlersparadise.com/help/glossary.shtml) is the back pin left standing in various splits.  
> Disclaimer: _Welcome to Night Vale_ and all related characters are the property of Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Cranor, and Commonplace Books. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Carlos isn't sure what he expected from Cecil's bowling league, but it wasn't revolution. He should have known better. He sighs and drinks his beer and writes down statistics on a napkin: pins per strike, average pins per ball, ball weight versus player height. The numbers are soothing. 

It wasn't easy to come back to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, but Cecil held Carlos' hand tightly and Carlos took deep breaths and tried not to think about bleeding. Lane five is blocked off. The occasional tiny explosion still makes Carlos flinch, but he looks at Cecil and Cecil gives him a tiny thumbs up. 

Cecil, neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, brown skin, brown eyes, dark hair, is endearingly enthusiastic about both community radio and Carlos and deadly serious about bowling. Carlos has seen Cecil trip over both his words and his front step, but when Cecil steps out toward the lane, he is suddenly all grace. He steps with care on the slippery floor with his slippery shoes, every muscle engaged, glasses in place. Cecil takes a breath; he draws back his arm, balanced against the weight of the ball; he steps forward, exhales, and releases in one smooth motion. Carlos lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. The ball flies down the lane, straight and smooth, and hits the sweet spot between the pins. They tumble to the floor, ten white pins on the glossy blond wood.

"Neat!" Cecil says. 

Carlos smiles at him and writes it down on his napkin. The displays all still say "THEY ARE HERE", but nobody ever misses a turn. Josie's next. She hoists her ball with the angel blazoned on it and totters toward the lane. She's not quite as graceful as Cecil - arthritis, Carlos thinks - but she's definitely a hell of a bowler. 

Steve Carlsberg is also on the team, which was a surprise to Carlos, and then, somehow, less surprising. According to Cecil, Steve is the reason they lost the last three seasons. Carlos never got the whole story, what with the the muttering and the scowling and the constant tangents to other awful, _awful_ things Steve has done, including ruining the last PTA meeting with a) store-bought cookies and b) terrible questions about things no one will _ever_ care about.

"Ugh, he's the worst," Cecil says as Steve gets up to bowl. "I wanted to replace him five seasons ago, but 'according to prophecy', we have to let him play." Carlos is treated to a full display of eyerolling, finger-air quotes, and drawn out words. "Also," Cecil continues, "he is surprisingly good at spares. Probably because he never does anything right the first time."

This isn't league night, so the only other bowlers are Leann Hart, Frances Donaldson, and Simone Rigadeau, who all have matching shirts and grim expressions, and a group of StrexCorp employees down at the very end. They're wearing orange. Carlos, on his way to the bar, heard them talking about maximizing the efficiency of their leisure time. They were all extremely cheerful. Eerily cheerful, from Carlos' point of view, and he's been with Cecil for quite a while now, so that's saying something.

Josie comes and sits next to Carlos. "Not a bowler, Carlos? Well. I suppose even a perfect scientist is allowed one flaw."

He smiles at her. "I like opera, if that helps."

She sighs. "It does." Her hands tremble in her lap for a moment, and then she stills them. "Erika is gone."

"I know," Carlos says. He isn't sure what else he can say. He's never understood the angels, no matter how many observations he made. The angels were difficult to quantify. They were never the same from one day to the next. They were eternally constant. They were ten feet tall. They spoke without mouths. They stooped to taste Josie's corn muffins. They stole her salt. They walked down the streets of Night Vale, glowing faintly. They changed light bulbs. They covered Josie's house in shadow.

"If I fall…" Josie starts to say, and then looks away. "No. It's already happening."

"What, exactly, is happening?" Carlos asks gently.

"Of course," she says. "A scientist is precise. That's the fifth thing a scientist is." She peers at the pins on their lane with her opera glasses, and then the pins on lane five, and then, very briefly, the StrexCorp employees at the end of the row. 

"Yes," Carlos says, for lack of anything else to say. Cecil picks up his bowling ball and Carlos spares a moment to watch him: step, breath, pause, release. He thinks that he would like to take Cecil dancing someday. He thinks that he would like to dance with Cecil, very slowly, in view of all their friends, or at least, all of their friends still living in Night Vale (still living and in Night Vale, more accurately - a scientist strives for accuracy, even in an irrational world). 

Josie looks at Carlos. "It is impossible to be precise about this. Things are happening. Things may happen." She squints at him, raises her opera glasses, drops them to her lap again. "Carlos the scientist. Would you like to learn to read runes? It may be too late, but I would like to teach you."

"Yes," Carlos says, because he has lived in Night Vale long enough to understand a few things. "I would like that very much."

"It will not be precise," Josie warns him. 

Carlos considers this. "Life is imprecise."

"Just so," Josie says. "Love is imprecise." She gets up slowly as Steve Carlsberg returns to his molded plastic chair. "Fortunately, bowling is fairly consistent." She walks carefully and a little unevenly to the ball retrieval area to pick up her eight-pound ball with its angelic symbol.

Cecil comes and sits by Carlos. He rests his hand on Carlos' knee and smiles sweetly, a plastic cup of water in his other hand. "Carlos," he says, his voice warm, containing multitudes.

"You're bowling very well tonight," Carlos says, leaning against Cecil.

"Thank you," Cecil says, sounding delighted. "I think it's the new ball. Or perhaps it's my desire to defend us against the tiny civilization that lives under lane five. I think I could bowl over quite a few tiny people. Did you have a nice chat with Josie?"

"Yes," Carlos says. "She's going to teach me to read runes."

"That's probably for the best," Cecil says, a little wistfully. "Now that the angels are gone. Not that they were ever there, or real. Angels aren't real - everyone knows that." He takes a thoughtful sip of water. 

Carlos is grateful every single day that Cecil can say the words "Angels aren't real" without bursting into wracking sobs. He can't even describe the aching, joyful pang that shoots through him when Cecil denies the existence of angels or the angelic hierarchy and then goes on speaking. It was very alarming, talking to Intern Vithya. Once, she was making coffee while Carlos was waiting for Cecil, and Cecil said something about angels, and Vithya mumbled reflexively that angels weren't real and burst into tears, instantly and violently, gasping so that her whole body shook. All Carlos could do was put his arms around her and hold her as she soaked the lapel of his lab coat. It was terrible, seeing her suffer and knowing there was nothing he could do to help. But Cecil speaks of angels with nonchalance, and Carlos breathes a sigh of relief.

"We're going to make them leave," Cecil says, his voice quiet, but conversational. "The whole league has agreed. We took a vote. It was very difficult to retrain the advertising cockroaches to carry messages. We should have mobilized earlier."

Carlos risks a quick glance at the StrexCorp employees. 

"Yes," Cecil says. "The angels tried to warn us. There have been signs." He sighs. "I wish Dana were back. I wish we could find John Peters - you know, the farmer? I hope that Dana comes back soon. She can help you with runes, and she can tell us more about the door, and about the Man in the Tan Jacket."

"The Man in the Tan Jacket," Carlos says. "He was asking about sunlight. It was anomalous, and then it made sense. Things that have not made sense will being to resolve as we collect more data and the trends become clear."

"The sunlight is...troubling," Cecil says. " But mostly this: when I look inside myself, I don't see Strex. I don't want to see Strex. I want to see my heart, and my lungs, and my large intestine, and my love for you."

"I agree," Carlos says, because it's the best shorthand he can devise for all the things he wants to say. 

Cecil smiles at him. "I knew you would." He squeezes Carlos' knee. "It won't be easy."

"I know," Carlos says. "Nothing here is easy. Nothing here is simple. Except this, this thing that exists between you and me. Somehow we made something true out of something very confusing."

"In the desert, the flowers bloom at night," Cecil says cryptically, but Carlos thinks he understands. 

The bowlers glide over the floor in their slick shoes. The balls fly down the lanes, as if the laws of physics are suspended when the boundary is crossed between the ordinary parquet and the immaculately waxed and polished lanes. The fluorescent lights glint off the curves of the balls, leaving the dimples of the finger holes in shadow. Pins clatter, the hollow sound echoing in the strange spaces of the pin retrieval areas, where chaos becomes orderly over and over in mechanical rhythm. Somewhere beneath lane five, the very faint sound of chanting can be heard. Carlos shivers. Cecil carefully straightens Carlos' collar and brushes his fingers through the hair at the nape of Carlos' neck. 

"Even the void is partially stars," Carlos says, loud enough for the others to hear, and Josie nods. 

"Welcome to Night Vale," she says.


End file.
